


The Power of Giving

by ThirdPretender



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: Gen, Gift Giving, POV The Iron Bull (Dragon Age), Search for a Cure, The Qun (Dragon Age)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-05
Updated: 2020-01-05
Packaged: 2021-02-27 06:33:45
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,812
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22122634
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ThirdPretender/pseuds/ThirdPretender
Summary: The Iron Bull receives an unexpected gift for Satinalia.
Comments: 8
Kudos: 8





	The Power of Giving

**Author's Note:**

  * For [helygen2017](https://archiveofourown.org/users/helygen2017/gifts).



> This is a Secret Santa exchange with Helygen2017!
> 
> Prompt: In keeping with the season, the first time a gift being given or received; a thoughtful or sentimental gift that surprises the recipient.
> 
> Personal angle: I like trying to get into the mindset of characters, and I’m not certain I’ve ever written from the perspective of Iron Bull… so here’s an Iron Bull PoV for Helygen2017.

This time of night, Skyhold glittered sharply like a frozen jewel beneath the stars. The Iron Bull’s breath trailed behind as he strode towards the Herald’s Rest tavern. Par Vollen’s tropical climate felt far away, and though he missed his homeland, he’d never admit that the primary reason was that the cold bothered his joints. Above him, the painted sign of Andraste cradling the Herald’s white-draped form creaked in the wind, and Bull’s eyes narrowed until he identified the sound. Shaking off the creeping paranoia that becoming Ben-Hassrath instilled in the best of them, he relaxed his shoulders and pushed open the heavy wooden door.

Immediately the buttery warmth from the central hearth and multiple sconced torches soothed his aching knees, and he paced towards his usual seat at the back of the tavern. The unusual scent of cloves, cinnamon and orange zest in mulled wine mingled with the smoke from the fireplace. Maryden, a dark-haired minstrel whom the Iron Bull assessed as lacking in bardic training, stood on a sturdy wooden chair to hang braided garland above it while Cabot poured ale for a plain fellow at the bar. Unsurprising to Bull, Krem watched Maryden sidelong from where he sat, the musician frequently in his sights. _Those two would be a good couple if Krem weren’t on assignment._ Not that Bull cared about what Krem did romantically; it was Krem who always put off the romance until the fighting was over. _Who am I kidding? I don’t romance on assignment either._ He sure did get around though, and his one good eye wandered the Herald’s Rest for a possibility as he moved towards his people.

“Hey Chief,” Krem gestured a greeting with a tankard of ale, and the other Chargers murmured, grunted, or belched their own greetings in turn. Though hearty drinkers and jokers, Satinalia easily laid many a mercenary low, and the Chargers themselves were still recovering from the mission not a month back on the Storm Coast. They returned alive, but without the Inquisitor’s hoped for alliance with the Qunari. 

“Evenin’ Krem,” he replied, taking in the scene. Bull didn’t like the energy - somewhere between listless and morose - so he decided to lighten the mood, “Drinking that warm piss Fereldeners call spiced wine?”

“It’s wassail,” Krem corrected, leaning back and plastering a smirk on his face. Bull’s role as Ben-Hassrath made him ask reflexively, “What’s the difference?” even though he knew. 

“Wassail’s spiced cider, not wine,” Krem picked up the entire jug by his elbow and held it out to The Iron Bull. The bench creaked hearty protest as he settled down next to his lieutenant and accepted the jug. Knocking back the wassail in one long gulp, Bull had to admit he liked how the warmth settled into his bones and spread to his fingertips. _Tastes a damn sight better than maraas-lok. ‘Course, taste isn’t the point._ The Iron Bull’s nose twitched and he scraped a toothpick between his teeth while he contemplated his circumstances. On the outside, he shared a lopsided grin with the Chargers and called Cabot to bring another round. Dalish and Stitch argued over the peanuts in the center of the table, and everything seemed normal for Satinalia. Except… _Except this time, I’m Tal-Vashoth. Guess drinking puny alcohol and suffering the cold in my joints is the rest of my life._ He didn’t know how he felt about that. Depression, maybe? Unfettered? His mood never touched his face, as he tossed a few coins on the table. “Pass the nuts, would you?”

“Well, well,” a woman’s voice said behind him. “Mind some company?” _Inquisitor Evelyn Trevelyan,_ thought Bull, wondering just how out of sorts he was now that he didn’t notice her coming up behind him. He always noticed people coming up behind him. _Except Sera, but I gotta hand it to the kid - she’s good. Guess if you become Tal-Vashoth, you immediately lose your edge._ He knew that kind of thinking was bullshit. Skills didn’t work that way. He clamped down on it and grunted in response. _Regardless of what happens next, I owe the Inquisitor. The Chargers are still alive._ There was a sense of relief that Bull didn’t want to examine too closely that Trevelyan had taken the decision away from him. _Tal-Vashoth hurts, but I can get used to it._

She took the sound as assent, and settled down beside him on the bench. Without fanfare, the swarthy woman with direct brown eyes placed a small parcel on the table between them, wrapped in crimson and emerald paper. A gay bow with sprigs of elfroot held it together, “Happy Satinalia, Bull.”

“Happy Satinalia, boss,” Bull paused, both brows raising in a slant in line with his horns. The pull of his eyepatch made the Inquisitor’s nose squinch by way of response, and he picked the tiny package up with a massive hand, “What’s this?” He knew Evelyn was sentimental, but they weren’t particularly close. She spent more time with her advisors than with the mercenary captain who oversaw various operations for her, though she was never impolite. Bull considered her a quality operator, as if putting the Chargers ahead of the possibility of an alliance with the Qun hadn’t proven it. She wasn’t craven, and she didn’t see people as an expendable part of a larger machine. In short, she was everything the Qun wasn’t. _Tal-Vashoth,_ Bull whispered to himself, an unbidden response to his admiration. 

“It’s Satinalia,” Evelyn replied, stroking her chin with a leather-clad hand. “I’d been doing some thinking, Bull.” Cabot silently placed a goblet beside the Inquisitor and disappeared before attracting her attention, “The Qun… they expected us to kill our own men for the chance at an alliance. When we refused and they lost their dreadnought, they could have still allied with us.”

“No they couldn’t,” Bull frowned, pouring her some of his wassail from his pitcher before taking another swig directly from it himself. She watched him with her head tilted slightly away, a questioning look in her eyes. He didn’t really want to explain, but now that he was no longer Hissrad... _She deserves the whole truth, not just part of it._ Bull sighed heavily, “The Qunari never once in history allied themselves with outsiders. There’s a reason for it - to them, the Qun’s expansion is both justified and inevitable. Any alliance they might offer would be the strategic first steps to manifest that destiny.”

“So… it was a lie from the start? You knew?” Evelyn bit her lip, fingers plucking nervously at the spine of her goblet.

“Knew? Ehhh,” Bull’s horns traced a minor figure eight in the air, while he considered. _Had I lied? The best lies are the ones you believe yourself._ “Nah. But I suspected. My orders were to bring the offer to you, and I did that. It probably was real enough - get help with the Venatori, keep red lyrium away from Seheron, and funnel both soldiers and spies into Ferelden with the full blessing of the Inquisition - then be ready to turn the tables after the immediate threat was over? Kills a whole flock of birds with one stone. I could see it. But I was part of the Qun, boss.” Bull grunted, “I didn’t question. That’s not the place of the Hissrad.”

The sympathy in Evelyn’s look made him uncomfortable, or maybe it was Krem finally giving up his attention on Maryden to eavesdrop. Bull forced himself not to grit his teeth, _You’re no coward, Bull. Face it head on._ Without even a twitch of the jaw, Bull poured Evelyn more wassail and continued in a relaxed tone, “For an alliance to work, there's gotta be common ground. The Qun would never put a handful individual lives above the whole. What you did - it drove home that you are Bas.”

“What’s that mean?” Evelyn’s brows furrowed and her mouth pulled in a thin line while she tucked a tight, glossy curl behind her ear. Bull knew her tells well enough by now. By his estimation, she felt sympathy for him instead of betrayed. Part of him felt grateful, another shame, and yet another relieved. _Too many personalities in here._ Her hand found his forearm, giving it a brief squeeze while he processed. 

“It means ‘not of the Qun’,” Bull showed his teeth with a hint of a smirk, folding his arms and leaning back in his seat.

“That makes no sense,” Evelyn protested, releasing Bull’s arm to roll her eyes and throw up her hands, “They knew I wasn’t part of the Qun before they even offered an alliance. I’m a friggin’ Free Marcher for crying out loud!” 

Bull watched her with his good eye until she calmed down, then said, “Bas are poisonous to the Qun. Without Ben-Hassrath training, when the Qunari meet outsiders, they often lose their way.” With a sense of weight, he said, “They become Tal-Vashoth.”

“You mean… they won’t associate with us because they’re afraid we’ll rub off on them?” 

Iron Bull laughed at Evelyn’s quizzical expression, “Basically. That’s right. You got it. Want some more piss to drink?” He held up the jug of wassail and she grimaced, pushing the tiny box across the table towards him. She said, “Still think it’s dumb.”

“You were born free,” Bull pointed out, glancing at the small box, “Born inside a cage, you don’t know it 'til you meet people outside the bars. What’s that?”

“It’s Satinalia. Open it,” Evelyn encouraged him with a smile.

The Iron Bull slipped a thick finger under the delicate bow and tore it off the side. Inside, a folded parchment waited. Unfurling it, he read aloud:

> ‘I, Inquisitor Evelyn Trevelyan, Herald of The Inquisition, hereby offer an enduring commission to The Iron Bull, Captain of the Chargers Mercenary Company, and to each of his individual Chargers, either together or separate. This commission shall include their current monthly wages at an increase, retirement benefits, insurances for their families, and all other associated benefits of membership of the Inquisition to remain so long as the organization endures and the Chargers Mercenary Company so chooses, in perpetuity.' 

Evelyn’s smile widened as Bull finished and the Chargers whispered amongst themselves in hushed tones, “You're not Tal-Vashoth. That’s a Qunari word, and you’ve left the Qun. You are Iron Bull, mercenary captain for the Inquisition.”

The crimson wax of official seal of the Inquisition blurred very slightly as Evelyn’s words sank in. The Iron Bull took a heavy breath and released it, regulating his emotions. When he knew he was under control, he looked at the Chargers. Expectant faces peered back at him, waiting for his decision and their cue. _It’s a good deal. And Inquisitor Trevelyan - she’s a good leader._ So he nodded slightly and said, “Yeah. I can live with that.”

The Chargers cheered and clapped him on the back.

**Author's Note:**

> I didn't have a beta reader for this one, so please don't be shy to let me know if there are any grammar errors or any other mistakes that I should patch up. Thanks!


End file.
